Holocaust Revisited
by Grando181
Summary: As a NeoNazi group hits Carbondale, Colorado, a father worries for the safety of his family, a boy is lured, and the small town of South Park begins to disintigrate. StanKyle, CartmanKyle, CartmanWendy, and more. Please Review.
1. Carbondale, Colorado

Disclaimer: South Park is the creation of the Crab People. I'm serious. Run for your lives, never eat treasure, and watch out for Manbearpig and a bad case of indigestion.

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Gerald Broflovski's forehead creased into two wrinkles, newspaper folding in half as his sons walked into the kitchen dressed for a day at school. Kyle was celebrating his junior year at high school while Ike was catching up near the end of middle school. His eldest son opened the freezer and pulled out the box of waffles before he stuck three into the toaster oven. 

"Kyle, Ike, there's something I would like to talk to you boys about," Gerald began as he lifted a hand to rub against his forehead. The newspaper was set on the table top, headline face-up. Ike, ever inquisitive, walked behind his father's shoulder and stooped over. His eyes scanned from left to right, lowering as he speedily read through.

"Neo-Nazi Extremists hit Carbondale, Colorado," the boy read out loud, enunciating each word crisply. "That's terrible."

"Yeah, I mean, dude, that's not too far away from here. Did the police stop them?" Kyle asked, not glancing behind his shoulder as the timer on the toaster went off. His fingers closed on the door, tugging the glass open before he quickly shuffled the treats onto his plate. A hand closed around a bottle of maple syrup and he walked to the table, sitting across from the other two.

"Not yet, Kyle. This doesn't look good—the group has been targeting Jews and branding the Star of David on their chest… they're also targeting blacks and homosexuals." Gerald's voice trailed off, eyes studying the expression on his eldest son's face but the boy merely sliced his waffle into pieces with his knife then drew the syrup-coated mass to his mouth.

"Is it safe to go to school?" Ike asked, reaching across the table to grab an apple from the decorative fruit basket placed near the center of the table. He turned it in the palm of his hand before it was brought to his lips, teeth sinking into the savory fruit.

"I think for now it is," Gerald replied. He sighed, shoulders drooping a bit. "We might have to stay in a liberal state for a few weeks though."

"What?" Kyle said through a mouthful of food. He swallowed then wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. "Can't they stop them?"

"Hopefully. We just need precautions, Kyle. Your mother and I love you boys dearly and don't want you to get hurt… or your friends. Just, be careful at school, kids. Okay? And tell Token and Stanley to keep an eye out for themselves."

Kyle rose to his feet abruptly. He walked to the sink and dumped his plate in it, not bothering to rinse it before he picked up his backpack. "Stan's not black, Dad," he replied as he stepped from the room. "Come on, Ike. We're going to be late," he called over his shoulder. The younger leapt to his feet and gave his father a short hug before he grabbed his backpack and chased his older brother in pursuit.

Gerald frowned, eyes lowering. Sometimes he wondered whether Kyle was truly so naïve, or whether the boy was trying to pull one-up on him. His eldest son had been best friends with Stanley since childhood, both spending as much time at each other's houses as at their own. They supported each other through the crushes and heartbreaks of youth; they snuck out of their rooms at night to go to the other's when they had a problem or couldn't sleep. Gerald had been alarmed by this as he discovered that his twelve-year-old son was not in bed when he checked in one night, but the fear subsided as he heard the creek of the boy climbing up the tree to return. He had left the room and not mentioned the incident to his son.

Two years later, he had gone to the school's talent show wanting to support Kyle's band, Moop. He and Sheila had sat with the other kids' parents, clapping and shouting their support though Randy Marsh had drunkenly complained that they sounded like a cat being tortured. Gerald had wanted to reprimand the man when a short cry elicited near the stage as his son danced dangerously close to Eric and Stanley. Eric had dropped to his knees, extending a hand forward to the few students screaming before the stage while his son and Stanley remained standing, hips swaying as they rocked into the beat. His son took a step back then another until both boys were back to back, hips synchronized.

They had come in third place, bested by Wendy Testaberger's interpretive dance and Jimmy Swanson's stand-up comedy. Gerald had screamed, applauding wildly as he left the parents to move backstage. His hand moved his coat pocket, closing around the small cloth bulla. Inside, he had collected gold coins to bring him luck to a potential career in music (or at least satisfy his youthful needs).

"Um, excuse me, but have you seen my son anywhere?" he asked, stopping as he saw Butters Stotch.

"Oh ah hello Mr. Broflovski. I think I saw Kyle behind the curtains not maybe five minutes ago."

"Thanks Butters," the man replied, smile playing on his lips. He walked forward, smile never budging from his face. Stage lights and students littered the walk to the stage but he ignored the laughs and swears—such was the luxury of youth. "Ky-" he began to call though cut himself off. His son stood in front of Stanley, a hand placed on each side of the boy's shoulder as if holding his friend to the wall. The two laughed, heads bowed forward with their foreheads touching.

"You were amazing."

"No, _you_ were."

"_We_ were."

Gerald's fingers lost their grip on the bulla as his son's head tilted to the side, closing the distance until his lips were pressed against another's.

His son kissed Stanley Marsh on the mouth.

Where else would he kiss him?

Gerald had retreated to the auditorium claiming he had to use the rest room. As the four boys joined them, the Jewish father had clapped and offered congratulations. He slipped the bulla into his son's hand telling him to keep it with him for good luck or invest it for the future; his eyes then moved to Stanley and he reached into his wallet retrieving twenty dollars for the boy. "Congratulations," Gerald had said, beaming at the pleased expression the other youth had. Stanley offered thanks after a "Dude! Sweet!"

It was two-and-a-half years since the talent show, and Kyle never once had a "talk" to confess his sexuality. Sometimes Gerald wondered if he had imagined the incident or if his son had drunk but sometimes when Stanley was over he would hear muffled scuffling from his son's room; twice he had noticed a bulge through Stanley's jeans.

The sound of a car gunning drew the man's attention to the window. His son had gotten inside his Mazda and revved the engine, knowing fully well that his mother would loathe the sound. Ike turned his head from the passenger window, waving his hand in a short goodbye as his brother shifted the car in reverse and rolled over the newly shoveled driveway.

"Stay safe, boys," he murmured, extending a hand to pick up the discarded newspaper and toss it in the trash bin.


	2. Subterfuge and Serviettes

Disclaimer: Matt Stone and Trey Parker are _still_ Crab People. I'm CEREAL you guys!1oneone. Their population has manifested and consumed Comedy Central. Be warned.

Granted... this disclaimer had nothing to do with the story itself, but I felt the readers should be warned about the dangers of manbea... wait, uh. Crab People. Ah, fudge it.

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Ike's toes scraped just below the dashboard, eyebrows furrowed together. "I'm pretty sure Dad knows about you and Stan." A hand lifted, index finger drawing a line down the passenger side window.

"Has he told you this?" Kyle answered. His hand moved to the heat panel, phalange pressing the rear-defrost button in and releasing it. Smoothly, his hand returned to the wheel, thankful for the thick gloves covering his fingers.

"He's asked me-"

"You didn't tell him, did you?" Kyle replied quickly, voice elevating in pitch.

"No, of course not." Ike sighed and rocked back into his seat. "I wouldn't do that to you, but it's obvious he suspects."

"I think you're taking this out of proportion," his brother replied, shaking his head from side to side.

"He asked me if you were afraid that he wouldn't love you if you told him that you and Stan were going out," Ike cut back.

Silence filled the space between them. Kyle's hand moved and turned his wipers on, brushing a thin layer of snow from the windshield.

"Kyle-" Ike sighed and shook his head. Rearranging the thick, green scarf around his neck he offered a sympathetic expression. "I'm worried about you. You know Dad wouldn't tell Mom. How long are you going to be able to hide it?"

"As long as I have to," Kyle sighed. "I'm supposed to get a good job. I have a 4.0 GPA, granted that's probably because I actually do homework and study unlike anyone in the school except Wendy and on occasion Stan. Coming out to Mom and Dad right before college would be probably the dumbest thing I could do right about now."

"And after college?" Ike asked. "What happens then?"

"…probably Mom will have found me a Jewish wife by then," Kyle murmured, slumping back into his seat.

"Is that how it's going to be?" Ike's eyes widened considerably. His brows raised in the movement to hide under the mop of dark black hair on his head. "You're just going to do what she says? What about Stan?"

"Look, I don't know, okay?" he sighed and flipped his turn signal on as he neared the side street to the middle school. "Who knows if Stan and I will even go to the same college let alone be together by then? No one knows. Just for now, it's safe. And think about it—do you really think that Stan's parents would be fine knowing their good, little Catholic son is butt buddies with his Jewish best friend? You should know how Mr. Marsh gets—he always yells at Stan for acting _too gay_."

Bemused, Ike quirked an eyebrow at his brother.

"…but Stan _is_ gay."

Kyle's nose wrinkled in a quick twitch. "That's beside the point, Ike. And his family doesn't know. Tolerance is fine as long as it doesn't involve Shelly or Stan."

"I don't know," Ike murmured. "If I were Stan, I don't think I'd like to know that my boyfriend was planning on dumping me after a couple of years."

"Well, you're not Stan. And if you were, I wouldn't be dating Stan since that'd be a bit too creepy."

"You know what they say—Incest is Best," Ike replied, corners of his lips curling up into a smile.

"IKE! Sick, dude!" Kyle protested, unable to stifle a hearty laugh as he pulled into the middle school's parking lot. "Get your butt to class—you need me to give you a ride home, or are you taking the bus?"

"I've got a ride with Flora's parents," he replied, fingers closing around the door handle.

"Ooh, that's three days in a row that you've spent with your _girlfriend_," Kyle teased. Ike merely laughed as he pushed the door open, raising his middle finger for a fleeting moment before he pulled his scarf tighter around him and hustled toward the school building. Naïve youth—something Kyle remembered all too well.

He shifted the gears into reverse before turning the vehicle toward the main road, now in the direction of the high school. The snow began to fall more steadily, a few flakes turning into stronger flurries. He grinned as he contemplated the probability that they would be let out early as he pulled into the parking lot and shifted into park. Sliding from his car and gripping his backpack, he pressed down on the lock-button and grinned in the direction of the school.

The snow crunched under his boots leaving jagged footmarks behind him as he walked to the front steps. A few students were walking through the doors, their laughter mixing with the commotion of the squeaking door. Kyle dragged his boots, scraping the bottoms before he walked into the building. Down the corridor to the left were the boys lockers located within a twenty foot parameter. Cartman held his books under one arm, the other flapping in the air in elaborated gestures. From a distance, it was more apparent as to how ridiculous the boy seemed. Kenny stood beside him, parka strings drawn tight to shield as much of his face as possible from the snow while Stan sat on the ground, notebook in hand as he most likely was trying to review for a test. Kyle approached, kicking the side of Stan's soaked converse in time to hear the tale end of the conversation.

"-so like these guys start branding these guys so they can identify them and holy hell, they were saying they smelled like burning rubber."

"Move it, fatass," Kyle said, pulling his locker open and hitting the boy in the shoulder with it. Stan offered a short smile, a hand snaking out to tug at the boy's pant legs.

"AY! Shut up, Jew. If you don't shape up pretty soon they'll be after _you_."

"Who? Your mom? Tell her I forgot to return her call," he snorted, pulling out three books from his backpack before placing them in the cold locker. He slammed the door shut before he bent over and kissed Stan's forehead. "You need a new hat—this wont keep you warm at all," he laughed, flicking his index finger over the red poof at the top.

"As soon as you get rid of yours," Stan replied.

"Yeah, yeah," Kyle laughed. It always was like that—both boys reluctant to give up any form of headwear be it that most of Stan's hair stuck out the bottom or Kyle had to get a haircut, which he didn't quite mind. High school was a time for change, and though he found he was becoming more popular with a 'fro he didn't always want to be lumped with the stoners who did nothing but blast Bob Marley twenty-four/seven.

"Oh man, I'm totally fucked," Stan groaned, tapping a pen over the French he was studying.

"Not yet—it's only 7:40 in the morning," Kyle replied, laughing slightly. Cartman snorted, rolling his eyes at the pair.

"You know what I hate most about Jews? When they're fucking fags as well. It's not even funny anymore to make fun of them for being raging homos." The boy brought a hand back, sliding through his short brown locks. His fingers bunched before they released.

"I think they're the reason why we can't get girlfriends; everyone probably thinks that you and I are gay too," Kenny said, bringing a hand to his mouth as he tried to stifle a cough.

"Dude, Ken, you okay?" Kyle asked, turning his attention to the boy. Kenny nodded his head up and down before he coughed and tried to clear his throat.

"Bronchitis probably," he said before he swallowed and started again. "I mean, you guys are together so maybe that's why girls aren't into me and Cartman. They better not think I'm giving it to fat ass up the butt." Stan and Kyle started laughing, cheeks rouging with the warmth of amusement. Cartman's face flushed as well, though his eyes were crossed and eyebrows furrowed together.

"Real fucking funny, you guys. Besides, its not like people really notice that Kyle and Stan give it to each other."

"You're kidding? You, Eric Cartman, actually saying they appear _straight_?" Kenny asked, bewildered. "What's your angle?"

"I don't have an angle. They just look like a bunch of emo fags—I'm sure that ho Wendy doesn't think anything more of it than that."

"Dude, we have to keep it quiet," Kyle replied with a sigh. "I mean, not that we're trying to hid it from you guys at the school, but if Stan's parents find out he's fucked."

"By his Mom or Dad?"

"Ew! Kenny!" Kyle snapped, unable to refrain from laughter or sensation of_ déjà vu. _

"I think I'd prefer their punishment for finding out I'm queer than taking this French test," Stan replied, not glancing up from his notebook. "Who the hell wrote this crap anyway? Who wants to read about a towel anyway?"

"Huh? What kind of test are you taking?" Kyle asked, stooping into a squat. Stan pointed to his paper.

"French IV examination. Look, I even took notes on what it's supposed to be on," Stan cleared his throat before proceding in his best French accent, though it sounded more like Craig with his sinus allergies. _"N'oubliez pas d'apporter une serviette_."

"You've got to be kidding; they wouldn't have that on a test," Kyle said, shaking his head from side to side.

"Man, I swear, Portuguese is a really lame language," Cartman snorted.

"Cartman, you fat ass! It's FRENCH!" Kyle yelled only to be drowned by the five-minute warning bell. Stan groaned and shut his notebook.

"I'll be damned if I remember it." He brushed his lips against Kyle's cheek before slapping Kenny on the back. "See you guys later."

"Have fun failing!" Kenny chirped amiably.

"Yeah, yeah…" Stan groaned. "_N'oubliez pas d'apporter une serviette… __Vous voulez aller devenez haut?_" he repeated out loud, chanting the words as if they were his mantra while he turned down the hallway into the foreign language department which consisted of one room.

Kyle shook his head and turned the opposite direction. "See you later Kenny," he offered with a short call as the boy stopped in one of the math rooms. The boy glanced sideways at his counter part. "Guess it's just you, me, and US History."

"I'm afraid so, Kyle," Cartman replied, pausing as his voice rose sickeningly. He offered a smile as he shoved the door to the classroom in. Kyle followed Cartman and turned up the third isle, sliding into a seat behind Clyde.

"Did you do your current event on the Neo-Nazis?" the boy asked, looking behind his shoulder.

"Huh? Oh, no. I only found out about it this morning," Kyle replied.

"But dude, you're Jewish," Clyde replied. "I thought you'd do it since it directly concerns yourself."

"Honestly, I only found out about it this morning when I was leaving for school. But the topic I chose ties in with the Holocaust-"

"Alright students, take your seats!" Mr. Reiner said, pulling out his clipboard with the class' attendance sheet on it. He was the newest and youngest teacher that joined the school system having received his first job after getting a teaching degree—upon seeing the school, he pleaded with the Teachers of America Union to transfer him, but didn't luck out. "We're going to conduct class in an orderly manner in case school lets out early due to the inclement weather, which most likely it will. We have a lot to discuss today, Kyle, how about you start giving your current event while I take roll call?" The boy's head nodded as he opened his backpack, pulling out the freshly typed page with his report and the printed source from Yahoo news. Walking to the front of the class, he unbuttoned the top button of his jacket and tugged off his gloves, shoving them in his coat pockets.

"My current event is on the rally in Washington about taking action to stop the genocide in Sudan, taken from Yahoo News by Associated Press Writer Elizabeth White. Presently, in Sudan, the citizens are in a state of disarray due to warring conflicts and bloodshed between their nation and Nigeria. The genocide seems reminiscent of the Holocaust in which millions of Jews lost their lives-"

"So what about the Neo-Nazis? Are they from Nigeria?" Clyde asked, oblivious to the interruption.

"…No. I don't believe they are. But this is a separate cause. Sudan currently is undergoing-"

"I don't like the sound of this second Holocaust," Pip said, shoulders shuddering. "It sounds dreadfully frightening."

"Me either," Kyle replied, fidgeting. "But I did my report on Sudan; I don't know much about-"

"Do you think they'll come to South Park? Aren't they already in Colorado?" a boy near the back of the classroom asked, one who Kyle never remembered seeing before.

"...I don't know; I prepared something else for my presentation."

"But aren't you Jewish, Kyle?" Cartman chimed in, voice honey-sweet and dripping with mockery. Kyle opened his mouth to reply though it closed in a short realization.

"You dirty son of a bitch," he murmured, eyes fixing on Cartman's face. "You set me up."

"Kyle, watch your language," Mr. Reiner said, glancing up from roll call.

"Why ever would you call me that, Kyle?" Cartman asked, stoking a hand over his chin. "I was just asking why the only Jew in South Park would do their report on Sudan's Genocide rather than their direct heritage being hit within the same state that they live in."

"Damn it, Cartman. You _know_ that it was only in the newspaper this morning. I didn't even get to read the article before I drove my brother to school!" Kyle protested.

"Thank you, Kyle. That will be all." Cartman grinned, holding up a small grey device about the size of his hand. "You see this? This is my Olympus DM-10 Digital Voice Recorder and Music Player. I can listen to Journey and also record lectures—such as yours. This will immensely help me writing my article for the school newspaper. I think I will title it 'The Anti-Semitic Jew'." A broad smile played on the boy's lips.

At the mention of being referred to as Anti-Semitic, Kyle snarled and lunged across the room, dropping his current events' report to the floor as he tackled Cartman from his seat. The boy's head cracked on the back of one of the desks, but Kyle continued to throw punches in between reaching to pry the device out of the boy's hands.

"OW! GOD DAMN IT, YOU FUCKING JEW!" Cartman growled, bringing a fist back to collide with the other's jaw though he relinquished the hold on the player. With a crunch, the Olympus was destroyed, crushed under a falling desk.

"You dirty Jew!" the boy snarled, staring at the broken pieces as a hand was held to his face nursing the wounds.

"Kyle! Eric! To the Principal's Office—Now!" Mr. Reiner demanded, voice cutting through the lapse of silence.

"I promise you this, Kyle," the boy said, straining to get to his feet. "It'll come back for you. You wait and see. It'll be there. And when you're screaming for help I'm going to sit and laugh."

"Oh fuck off," Kyle grunted, grabbing his backpack as he swung it over his shoulders. He padded through the door, the overweight boy close in tow, and turned down the hall for the principal's office. His head turned to the side as he passed the open door to the Foreign Language room, test over and now in session. Stan sat in the first row, slouched back in his chair as the short, blue rectangle of a teacher held a pointer toward the board.

"Now class, repeat after me: _N'oubliez pas d'apporter une serviette._"

"I hate this school," Kyle mumbled, shaking his head as he opened the door to the Principal's waiting room and stepped inside.

* * *

A/N: Wow, that was a fun AND intense chapter to write. Incase you were wondering (and didn't feel like looking it up), Stan's memorization for the French exam translates to: "Don't forget to bring a towel" and "You wanna go get high?" Most likely you figured it out then, or at the mention of Towelie being the teacher. This is South Park--it happens. :) 

I have to admit that I particularly enjoyed writing the part with Ike and Kyle as well as the luvu-luvu with Stan and Kyle.

Thanks for your reviews and enjoy. :)


	3. Because We're Jewish

Disclaimer: I was mistaken—South Park is not the creation of the Crab People but really the Skekses. I'm serious. If you have not seen S5 ep 7 OR The Dark Crystal, you must.

Anyway—enough Jim Henson. Let's move on.

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Going to the principal's office wasn't such a foreign occurrence for Kyle or Cartman, nor was the alien sight of Craig as they joined him in the waiting room, and so they quickly dropped their bags before proceeding. Craig was always there. He was such a fixture that Kyle barely acknowledged him as anything more significant than the surrounding furniture. Mr. Mackey once suggested the possibility of his having Tourette's Syndrome but that concept was shot down as soon as it was proposed after Craig flipped the guidance councilor off earning him a week of detention. 

"Ay Craig, move over," Cartman demanded, making a point as always to subjugate the other. The boy sat in the center of one of the offices couches leaving a less than desirable amount of space for the overweight boy. The boy's eyes lifted, wrist turning up as he bunched his hand into a fist. Extended toward the ceiling, his middle finger rose in salute.

"AY! Don't flip me off, Craig, or I'll kick you in the nu"

"Lay off it, fat ass," Kyle grunted, pushing past the boy before he turned his back to the couch and sank down. Craig's eyes shifted to the right where the boy had sat down, finger rising again by instinct.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Fat ass got us both in trouble," Kyle snorted.

"_I_ got _you_ in trouble? You broke my Olympus DM-10 Digital Voice Recorder and Music Player, fucking Jew."

"This isn't what that's about! You looked for a way to call me Anti-Semitic! Don't you understand what the hell you're belittling?"

"Nothing?" the boy replied, quirking his head to the side.

"I give up! I'll pay you back the money for your stupid iPod ripoff."

"AY! This is way better than an iPod! And… and I don't have to use that crappy iTunes where they con you into downloading all this music for just 9.99 and the quality isn't as good and then your internet connection cops out and you lose everything!"

"…what the hell are you talking about?"

"You know, like when you're downloading music and your router dies or some asshole sends you internet AIDS."

"What?" Kyle's head turned to the boy. "There isn't internet AIDS!"

"Yeah huh. It starts as like HIV—Human Internet Virus—and once you start from there it's a matter of time before your computer has AIDs. It's with those Trojan Droppers since they ruin the protection. I swear that's why I use Durex."

It was preposterous. Only in South Park, Colorado could a boy come to such a complex conclusion as to his computer's ending. Kyle wondered how Cartman was able to actually pull off decent grades when he worked or draw together plans that somehow seemed to work despite their intricacy; upon reflection, Kyle decided it was the result of his watching too many R-rated movies when he was a child. Unable to think of anything more clever to say than "you're an idiot," the boy grunted. "Like you've ever had sex."

"HEY! I have!" he protested indignantly. "All the time."

"Yeah, and no one's heard anything about this until now, why?"

"Because like, I was being sensitive to my ho. You know how they get? Start telling everyone then they're all holding out and being sensitive. I mean, like when they say that I'm like 'HEY! YOU GET YOUR BITCH ASS UP IN THE AIR AND CALL ME BIG DADDY!' And like, they're all 'But Cartman, your wang is too big,' and I'm like 'AY! You—you know you want it!'"

Craig's eyes shifted to the face of the boasting male, blinking once before he looked down at his hands disinterested. "Why are you guys here again?" he mumbled.

"It doesn't matter anymore," Kyle groaned. He let his head fall back with a resounding thud as the back hit the wall behind him. His eyes lulled shut and a hand was brought to his forehead. "God Cartman, would you please _shut up_?"

Kyle didn't bother opening his eyes when he heard the creak of the door swing in though it was the accompanying voices that drew him from his senses.

"We wish to see the Principal—the French teacher is simply ridiculous!" Kyle quirked a brow at the female's strong voice, taking only a moment before recognition. His eyes cracked open slowly, vision blurred but adjusting to the lean form of Wendy Testaburger stooped over the receptionist's desk, fist waving in the air. He blinked before his expression brightened finding Stan slouched behind her, hands shoved in the back pockets of his jeans.

"Assuming the test was a flop, Marsh?" Kyle called.

Stan turned sharply, bumping into Wendy as he moved. "Sorry Wendy… Kyle? What are you doing here?" He stepped around the girl before he walked to the couch, standing directly in front of his red haired boyfriend. "Ah, hey Craig," he offered as an afterthought. The boy's finger rose, but he moved two feet to the side of the couch, offering the space for Stan to sit.

"Ay! Why didn't you give me that, Craig?" Cartman protested to no response.

"…that explains things," Stan murmured, turning his back to the couch before he sank down in between the boys. "So, how long have you been waiting here for?" he asked, nudging the side of Kyle's boot with the side of his Converse.

"Enough time for Cartman to start going off about Internet AIDS and how that combined with the corruption of iTunes destroyed the world."

Stan blinked. A moment later, he blinked a second time.

"Hey, do you think that's what happened to my computer after Kenny sent me the link to Tubgirl?"

The resounding crack of Kyle's hand colliding with his forehead drew the room to a silence.

"Kyle?" Stan asked, brows raising.

"-I hate South Park. So bad," he muttered, eyes squeezed shut as tightly as they could. He shook his head from left to right before he lifted an arm and draped it around Stan's shoulders. "Sorry… I'm having a bad day."

"I sort of got that impression, unless masochism gets you off," Stan replied with a short laugh.

"God!" Wendy shouted, drawing their attention to where she stood. "What do you NOT understand about us NOT being reprimanded? Stan and I are filing a COMPLAINT!"

"A complaint for what?" the receptionist asked, smile never leaving her face.

"Our FRENCH teacher, as I've said FIVE TIMES already!"

"What seems to be the problem?" the woman asked, teeth sparkling in the overhead lights.

"He's a TOWEL for crying out loud!"

"I see," The receptionist's freshly painted nails tapped on the counter to her desk. "Your teacher sent you here on the premise of discrimination?"

"What? No! IS IT POSSIBLE FOR ANYONE TO BE AS STUPID AS YOU?"

"Geez Wendy, get sand trapped in your vagina or something?" Cartman asked.

"Blow it out your butt hole, fat ass," she snapped back, arms folding across her chest as all thoughts of reaming the secretary out left her mind.

"Gladly-"

"NO!" Stan and Kyle screamed, Craig joining them as they brought the front of their shirts up to cover their noses while Cartman turned around, backside facing them as he let one rip. Craig's free hand moved to his neck and he dove off the couch, choking from the horrendous stench. Stan and Kyle were quick to follow suit, scrambling to the opposite wall. With a smirk, the self-proclaimed victorious boy moved to the abandoned couch and sat down, patting the space next to him as he gave Wendy a smirk.

"There's always room for two," he suggested, eyebrows wiggling.

"…ew," Wendy replied, fanning the air in front of her face. "You could use that as a weapon of mass destruction."

"Hey, that's not such a bad idea. I bet the military would pay me like a hundred-million dollars or something for my ass. Tch'yeah, it's so worth it."

"Can't… breathe…" Craig croaked before his eyes lulled back in his head and he fell on his face. Stan's eyes widened, pointer finger extended to the form.

"Oh my God, Cartman's fart killed Craig!"

"You Bastard!" Kyle retorted, tapping Craig's side with the toe of his boot. The boy moaned once but refused to move. "Oh. Wait, he's still alive."

"Oh, well that's cool I guess," Stan murmured.

Echoing into the office's open doors, the sound of the bell ringing in the hallway sounded followed by the shuffling and commotion of changing classes. Wendy frowned, eyes trained to the door clearly in contemplation of whether she should stay to fight her cause and be tardy to her next class _or_ alternatively stay. Judging on the bias fact that Kyle and Stan were together and that most likely Stan would be staying, she opted for the later lest be ratted on by Cartman for using any sort of excuse to cut class.

The bright orange hue of Kenny's parka moved past the door, coming to a halt as his head turned to observe the interior of the office. His hand moved out, lightly patting a girl's shoulder. "I've got something to do—see you later, okay?" After waiting for a reply, he offered a wave and second goodbye before he entered the office. "What are you guys doing here?" he asked, eyes scanning from Kyle to Craig to Stan to Wendy and finally Cartman. "School was dismissed early."

"What?" the group replied in unsynchronized unison.

"You didn't hear the announcement?" he asked, quirking a brow. "Because of the weather we're supposed to go home early."

"Dude, sweet!" Cartman rose from the couch and stretched his arms behind his head. His bones cracked and the boy groaned with a relieved sigh. With a smirk, he drew both of his index fingers toward the door. "Screw you guys, _I'm_…" he paused for an extended dramatic effect, "going home." He walked before the others, mumbling a "See ya, ho," before he turned to the left and vanished from their visage.

"No shit, fat ass," Stan replied, grunting as he glanced to his watch. "I better run so I can catch the bus," he murmured.

"You still don't have a license?" Kenny asked bemused.

"They wont even let me practice after I drove Uncle Jimbo's truck into Stark's Pond." Snickers sounded through the room and Stan's eyes narrowed. "It wasn't my fault I didn't know how when to use the clutch."

"Shit dude," Kenny replied, shaking his head. "Even _I_ have a license. Only thing that could have made the story better was if you puked on the driving instructor."

Silence.

"Oh my God, you did?" Kyle chirped, eyes lighting up mischievously as Kenny snickered.

"Dude—drop it."

Another silence.

The group of students filed out of the office by an unseen code, a signal to cease. Wendy and Craig turned to the right to reach their lockers while Kenny headed the rest toward the left, sprinting only when he saw Cartman's locker slam shut.

"Street race in the parking lot!" he challenged, slapping the boy on the shoulder.

"AY! You have a head start you fucking cheater! Get back here!" the boy yelled loudly, huffing as he pulled his backpack on and ran as fast as his thick legs and oversized stomach could carry him.

"What do you think the chances are of Kenny dying?" Stan asked, twirling his combination lock from sixteen to eighteen to four. The base was pulled down and the cool metal pulled open. His hands closed over the remaining books in his locker, withdrawing them before he slammed the door shut.

"Try 98 to 2?" Kyle replied, quirking a brow.

"Sounds about right." He started to laugh though each sound died down lower and lower. Tilting his head, he rocked forward onto his toes, pressing his lips against the other's. Kyle accepted the kiss warmly, hand lifting to settle behind the other's head. His fingertips ran through the fine, black hair that had escaped its hat's protective shielding. His phalanges slid lower before the crook of his fingers closed around the back of his neck, drawing his lover closer as his mouth parted beckoningly. Stan eagerly accepted, tongue sliding forward into the other's mouth for a fleeting moment before he with drew, locked inches away from Kyle's face. "…what if you offer to give me a ride home and _inconveniently_ discover that—due to the weather—you have to drive me to your house until further notice?" he suggested, voice soft but directed. Kyle pulled the other close, pressing his lips against the Stan's before he nodded.

"That's one of the best ideas you've ever had, Stan. Come on, with a little bit of luck Mom and Dad will be snowed out at work." He tugged at the other's shoulder before they proceeded into the parking lot amidst a bulk of the students pulling their cars out of the parking lot and the honking of buses as they were cut off by the faster cars. The snow had collected up to their ankles, soaking through the thin canvas siding of Stan's converse—Kyle was only fortunate that he had worn boots. The two had laughed as they tromped through the parking lot though it died upon reaching the Mazda. Ike was sitting on the hood, knees drawn up to his chest as his arms hugged them close.

"Ike?" Kyle called, breaking into a short run followed closely by Stan. He panted as he came to a halt before the vehicle. "Ike, what's wrong? What are you doing here? Weren't you getting a ride home with Flora?"

"She dumped me," the boy whispered, breath fogging in the cold air as it rose toward the sky like smoke.

"What? Why?" Kyle's expression softened as he put a hand on his brother's shoulder.

"Her parents made her," the boy replied. "Because we're Jewish. Because they didn't want her involved because of the Neo-Nazi fanatics."

"Ike…" the boy murmured, drawing his brother into an unreturned hug.

"Can you take me home please?" he mumbled, hopping off of the hood as he pulled open the passenger door and slammed it shut after he sat down. Kyle stalled before he glanced back at Stan. His lover gave a short nod then walked to the backseat.

"Thanks Stan," Kyle mumbled as he crawled into the driver's seat, kicking the snow off the bottom of his feet before he buckled his seat belt, turned on the ignition, and carefully pulled out of the snow-covered parking lot.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for sticking with me, readers because phew! Just shy of 2500 words in this segment. 

In terms of the story's progression, I do detect some "amiable" vibes between Cartman and Wendy. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Plus, Craig made this chapter which makes things that much cooler, at least for me since Craig is God. Most likely my favourite parts would have to be the general Kyle/Stan cuteness and Ike at the end. That or Cartman's brilliance about Computer AIDS.

New Chapter soon as the three return to la casa Broflovski! Thanks for Reading and Please Review!

PS Allison Pwns All.


	4. Parenting is Overrated

Disclaimer: Correction—the Politically Correct Term for "Skekses" is "Pterodactyl Hybrids". I offer sincere apologies to any Pterodactyl Hybrids that may or may not have been offended by the incidental vulgarity. Due to this incident, I had decided to perform certain cult-like rituals. Why? I'm not sure. But I changed my mind about the road I was taking after watching "The DaVinci Code."

Anyway, let's rock.

* * *

Gerald Broflovski opened the front door as soon as he the low purr of the Mazda pull. into their driveway. He watched as the vehicle came to a halt, the glow of head lights lingering a moment before they faded into a nothingness. The father blinked as the left rear door opened and the familiar blue and red hat surfaced before the rest of Stan Marsh's athletic body while the passenger door swung open and the smaller form of his adopted son stepped out. Granted, he remembered his teenage youth well, and Stan's appearance was no more of a surprise than having Kosher on Passover but something was off in the placement. 

"Hey boys, come on in before you freeze—Ike? Ike!" he called, body pushed to the side as the boy stormed through the fallen snow and shoved into the house, not bothering to kick off his shoes as he thudded up the steps to the second floor and slammed his door shut. "Ike!" he yelled to no avail.

"Leave him alone, Dad," Kyle said firmly, sighing as he trudged up the front steps and stepped inside the doorframe, followed shortly by Stan. The door was pushed shut, the bolt of the lock turning and clicking into place. Kyle stood as he kicked both shoes off while Stan bent over, pulling out each lace of the high top converse he had grown to love. "His girlfriend's parents made her dump him because we're Jews."

"What?" Gerald's face contorted with horror, right corner of his mouth twisting downward. "That's completely ridiculous! Faith shouldn't be a driving factor. I'm calling his parents—"

"No!" Kyle protested. "Dude, he's in middle school. Parents don't call other parents when they're that age or their kids'll get ripped on like there's no tomorrow! And it sucks even more because there's nothing we can do about it because there's a stupid group of ignorant assholes trying to ruin my life! Jesus Christ, the only thing that could be worse is if fucking Cartman started a new ploy to idealize them!" The boy's cheeks flushed to a faint rose colour as he argued to agreeing forces. It was his passion and drive that drew people to him, a magnetic force that couldn't be reversed. Gerald sighed at his son's point, knowing fully well that the boy was right. His eyes shifted toward the other boy, now rising from untying his shoes, and he nearly smiled—the gaze on Stan's face was obvious enough; he was smitten by his son. Stanley would be an ideal pick for a son-in-law.

"You're right, Kyle." The father glanced down at his watch before lifting his head. "Your mother should be calling any time now with which hotel she's staying at—there's no way she would have been able to make it home. I won't tell her what happened. It's just… wrong though. Maybe we can form some sort of awareness in South Park."

"That's a pretty cool idea," Stan commented, speaking for the first time since he entered the Broflovski home. "Oh, hey, Mr. Broflovski, mind if I borrow the phone? I need to call my parents."

"Huh? Oh, sure Stanley. Go right ahead." Gerald's arm swept beside him to the wall and the raven-haired boy extended a hand to it, closing his fingers over the black plastic casing of the portable. He drew it toward his ear before lowering it in front of his chest, each button ringing with a synthetic ting. Drawing the piece to the side of his head, Stan turned his back to the father and son, walking away from them as he heard the tones.

Gerald turned his head toward his eldest son, now rummaging through the cabinets for microwaveable popcorn, and offered a smile. "He's a nice guy."

"Hn?"

"Stanley. He's a nice guy."

Gerald noticed how Kyle's body gestures didn't change or tense. His son only continued to grunt, grinning with satisfaction as he found the box of Orville Redenbacher popcorn along with double stuffed Oreos. The boy tore open the red cardboard box as he drew forth a plastic package of the coated substance resembling nuclear waste rather than artificial butter. The plastic was torn into shreds, discarded in the bin under the sink, before the remainder was shoved in the microwave.

"Yeah, but you knew that already. What? I've only been friends with him since forever," his son laughed.

Friends—the keyword to avoid suspicion.

"Ha, I guess so. You've always had good taste." The man's eyes shifted to the bag of Oreos before they lifted again. He thought perhaps his son's body had tensed, an explanation for the unblinking in his right eye.

"Yeah Mom… no. No, I can't walk home. Have you even looked out the window?" Stan's voice carried from across the room seeming to fill a short silence. An awkward one.

"You know, you can talk with me about things, right?" Gerald started. Kyle abruptly turned his back to the man, microwave beeping as its contents finished heating. The bag, now full, was tempting, in his arms as he noisily set it on the counter and looked for serving utensils. "I mean, if you ever want to tell me anything-"

"Go—Kyle!" Stan yelled, covering a hand over the mouth piece. "I could get hypothermia on a bus full of students, right?"

"What the—theoretically?"

"I mean, if I was sitting next to a few people it could be a fluke that I could get it and not the others, right?"

"Well, I think…"

"See Dad! I told you!" Stan argued back into the phone, pulling his hand away. "Otherwise I would have—what do you mean I should get my license? You were the one who forbid me from driving in the first place!"

Kyle sighed, shaking his head from side to side. Serving bowl in hand, he tore the bag open and dumped the gooey contents into it. Placing the bin over the bag of Oreos, he moved to the fridge and grabbed two sodas.

"I seriously don't get his family at all, sometimes," Kyle said with a slight headshake.

"Randy probably just had a bit too much to drink. Or, you know how his gets about some things."

The boy tensed but said nothing for a few moments. "…yeah. I know."

Stan returned with the phone and handed it to the parental figure. "My parents want to know if it's alright with you if I stay here until the storm's over." Gerald smiled as his hand closed over the base of the phone.

"No problem, Stanley. You're like family." Gerald held onto his father's gaze for a moment before he picked up the stack of food, now with two cans of Pepsi lying on the top of the gooey mass, before he tugged on Stan's arm.

"C'mon, I want to show you the first season of Firefly on DVD."

"You mean that really overrated sci-fi show? God, why the hell is everyone obsessed with that crap?"

"We're watching it _then_ I'll let _you_ pick something," Kyle countered aggressively. The other boy gazed at him before he nodded his head, picking up a slow jog as Kyle led the way out of the kitchen. Their steps pounded against each step, muting as they neared the top before the resounding noise of the door slamming was heard.

Gerald sighed as he drew the phone to his ear. "Randy? Hey, how's it going? …yeah, it's no problem at all. The boys are already upstairs watching Firefly. …yeah. I know. …really overrated crap. Well, you know how Kyle gets about Sci-fi and Horror flicks. …uh huh. …great! I'll be looking forward to that. Talk to you later, Randy." His thumb moved to the power button and he pressed in before sighing with content. As he placed the base of the portable into cradle, his eyes glanced upward at the ceiling. He tried to imagine the boys arguing over what to watch first, Stan falling asleep during the middle of his son's selection then choosing an equally pointless show to watch in return. No doubt, the Canadian comedic duo, Terrance and Philip would make an appearance as the two would cackle, probably rolling playfully on his son's bed.

Gerald shifted uncomfortably at the thought, never comfortable with giving the boy the "talk" and certainly knowing nothing about giving _that_ kind of talk. He sank down at the chair near the head of the table, shoulders slumping forth as he picked up the newspaper. Anything for some sort of distraction. "Carbondale, Colorado, huh?" he mused out loud, rereading the headlines for the Neo-Nazi extremists. The paper was folded and his head lowered, resting in his hands.

No one ever said parenting was easy.

* * *

A/N: Wow. Thanks for sticking with me this far! It took longer than I anticipated to write it—damn college finals. I suppose it's worth it and hey, cross your fingers for me making honor roll! 

Did you enjoy this chapter? I did! Despite what Gerald thinks, he _is_ a good father... plagued with very bad timing and poor communication skills. But honestly—do you think it would be easy to have "the talk" with Kyle?

Gerald agrees with Stan and Randy that Firefly is crap. Kyle likes it for the Mal/Wash shipping… oh, I mean the "plot." It's brilliant, truly! …

Jews can't lie.

Again, thanks a lot for reading, please review, and stay tuned for the next installment!


	5. Kiggin, Colorado

Disclaimer: South Park is not the creation of whoever invented Time.

Time… what a wonderful thing.

* * *

"Dude, this is so utterly lame," Stan complained. The boy lay on his stomach, arms folded neatly beneath his chin for a pillow. Kyle mimicked the pose beside him, back arched as if to provide for a better vision."

"You so don't have taste in _anything_. I mean, look! River totally kicks ass there!" Kyle protested.

"You're just saying that because you think she's hot," the raven-haired boy grumbled as he unfolded one arm and reached for the bag of Oreos that had slipped to the floor.

"And that's a problem?" Kyle laughed. He rolled onto his side and pressed the pause-button on the DVD clicker. "Stanley Marsh, I _do_ believe that you, my friend, are _jealous_."

"Hell yeah, I'm jealous," Stan replied, a brow quirking high enough to hide underneath the low brim of his hat. "All the guys in the show are ugly as sin."

"Stan!"

The boy laughed, bringing an arm up to defend himself as Kyle batted at him. "I'm serious, Kyle. It's just fan service. What good is a hot girl if I'm as gay as—"

"Big Gay Al?"

"What? No! Fuck you!" Stan's eyes lit up as he laughed. "I was going to say Rufus Wainwright!"

"Oh, so now you're a recovering Meth addict and great pianist?"

"But of course. I also traded in Shelly for a sister who was lucky enough to work with the Snow Patrol," Stan laughed again, pushing at Kyle's shoulder. The boy was prepared, instead rocking back as they wrestled.

"Seriously Stan, you have _no_ taste at all-" Kyle panted, wriggling to pull away from the headlock Stan held on him. Victorious, save for his abandoned hat, he tackled the boy and straddled his waist, knocking off his trademark hat before his hands closed around the other's wrists. Pinned to the mattress, Stan only offered a wink.

"So, I have no taste because I'm dating you?"

"That's different," Kyle retorted with again a roguish grin, only to be mirrored by Stan.

"You," Stan started, "have the fashion sense of a wombat in a 70s Disco."

"And _you_ need a haircut."

"No way—shaggy hair is one step closer to looking like Brian Molko."

"Oh God, not this again."

"What?" he protested. "I failed in my attempts at becoming Brian Boitano, so isn't Brian Molko the next-best thing?"

"You're comparing an ice skater to a musician? Stan Marsh, you amaze me. I'm game—enlighten me."

"Simple. Both have the glam, therefore they are awesome. In addition, both men's names are 'Brian' and anyone named Brian is awesome. And thirdly, they both have all the answers. Therefore, I bring you my conclusion."

After a moment's pause, Kyle reached one hand to his side, gripping as he belted out hard laughter. "My God, Stan, you amaze me. You truly and utterly amaze me."

"I should hope so if you're dating me," the boy replied, a hand smoothing behind his lover's shoulders. "But hey… on a serious note-"

"Ooh boy. Here we go."

"Shut up, Kyle. Listen," Stan paused. "…can we watch Terrance and Phillip now? Please?"

"You suck," his boyfriend replied in the midst of a short laugh. His free hand smoothed down the side of the other's face, tracing over his right cheekbone before smoothing over the soft flesh below. "Hey, you know… we are trapped in for the weekend and Mom's out. We could have some more alone time."

"That sounds like a plan to me," Stan agreed before he paused. "You sure it's okay that we're not…"

"Stan, it's fine." The boy shifted his hands to slide beneath Stan's shoulders. He rocked back, easing the boy into an upright position. "I'm not dating you just for this. Fuck, if you weren't you, I probably wouldn't be dating a dude at all."

"If it weren't for me, you wouldn't be dating _anyone_," the boy laughed, arms wrapping around the boy's waist as he nuzzled his face into his shoulder. "I'll tell you when I'm ready. I promise."

"Don't worry about it," Kyle replied, tilting his head up to nibble at the other's ear lobe. "I'm not going to force you into having sex or anything." The boy moaned, shifting his weight as he ground up against the other.

"H-hand job could be nice," he panted. The boys' eyes locked upon each other to greet the simultaneous rhythm of dance. A conjunction of rocking, grinding, turning, rolling until both boys lay on their backs, shirts missing and zippers undone on jeans.

"Wow," Stan started.

"Wow," Kyle replied.

The two remained in that position for twenty minutes until they heard the low call of "Supper's ready!" from the father of the house downstairs.

--

"But Moooooooooooooooom" Eric Cartman whined, eyes squeezed shut in the midst of complaint, "what do you _mean_ we have to ration our food?"

"Well poopykins," Liane began, honey-sweet smile never leaving her face, "Because of the storm, we have to be careful. Who knows how long we'll be stuck inside."

"But Maaaaaah," he protested a second time. "I'm hungry! I want some Cheesypoofs!"

"Eric, you need to grow up sometime," the woman started again before offering a warm smile. "How about I bake some muffins? We should have enough flour if I bake everything."

The boy's lower lip twitched, a slight tautness against the invisible hook. "…chocolate chip muffins?"

"With extra chocolate," she cooed.

"Shweet," he deliberated after a moment, taking the bait. Hook, sink, and reel. The boy turned his back to his mother, breezing through the kitchen before he turned and thudded up the stairs to his bedroom.

The room had been upgraded, floor space shrinking as he acquired a double bed instead of a twin. A thirty-six inch television was set directly in front of the bed complete with a DVD/VHS player and recorder, his TiVo, PS2, Xbox 360, Nintendo 64, and stacked towers of videos and games to last a lifetime. Shoved in the back of his closet was a Red Octane DDR pad, but Cartman didn't like to use it unless he was certain he was alone in the house. It was one thing to be the fat kid, but to be "the fat kid who's good at DDR" was another—he didn't want that rep.

By the window, Cartman had his desk adorned with his desktop, fax, scanner, and portable phone. They came in handy, or so the boy convinced himself. He was ready for corporate takeover, or anything to earn him ten million dollars.

The boy had moved to his desk, a hand stroking dotingly over the surface before he allowed his body to drop into the oversized chair. Boredom. Isolation. He gazed idly at the computer screen before a hand lowered, index finger pressing in the power button. His eyes then lifted to the top shelf of the desk. "How's it going, Clyde Frog?" he asked, a hand extending forward to wrap around the base of the toy as he pulled it down and nestled it in his lap.

"Wow Cartman, I missed you," he replied, voice high pitched in the slight whine of pretend.

"Yeah right," he muttered, eyes falling shut a moment before his hands moved to the keyboard. Chubby fingers tapped at the keys in a slow repetition as his programs began to boot up. It was only a few moments after his computer signed on AIM that IMs started to flood his windows.

People he didn't know.

People IMing false aliases.

Fake people, much like Clyde Frog.

"MOM! I'M HUNGRY DAMN IT!" he yelled, swiveling his desk chair around to better scream.

"Just a little bit longer, poopykins!" the sweet tone sifted through the door. He rocked back to his screen, exiting IM windows before reading their screen. _Goddamn hippies_, he had thought before his hand stalled by the escape key.

"Hello Savior," he enunciated slowly, reading the message twice before a follow up came. "It will all be yours and more—Signed Offline… what the hell?" The boy grunted, head shaking twice. "Stupid Chinese Hippies with their goddamn fortune cookies. GOD DAMN IT, MOM! WHERE THE HELL IS THE FOOD?" Without so much another thought, he rose to his feet and trudged to the door ignoring Clyde's invitation to play Literatti on Yahoo.

--

Amidst the heavy fall of snow threatening to coat the windshield like a blanket, Sheila Broflovski maneuvered her Subaru Forester down the road. The signs were barely visible through the mass as her food glided along the brake every few moments lest she get trapped in a hydroplane and careen off the side of the road into the dark depths of a fall. A hand ghosted over the horn before rounding a term, eyes squinting at the faint green colour of a road sign.

"Kiggin, Colorado? How did I get so far?" she drawled out loud, brows rising in the slightest bit of surprise. Her right turn signal was flipped on as she pulled off the exit, allowing the car to coast down an empty road save for the parked vehicles along the side. A faint glow radiated from a set of neon lights—"Smokey's Bar," it read. "Smokey's Bar"—her final destination for the night.

She shifted gears and the Subaru groaned as it pulled alongside the road, headlights flickering for a moment before they faded to black. Sheila pulled her coat on tight before gripping onto her purse, sliding each strap over her right shoulder before a hand closed on the door handle. Fighting against the wind, she pressed the door and stepped out. The air was bitter, biting against her cheeks as she struggled to close the door and press the clicker to lock it. Curling over, she trudged to the door underneath the neon glow. Each step covered her foot with snow, the crisp, wet flakes piling in over the sides of her shoes. It would be certainly something to phone home about.

The palms of her hands smoothed over the wooden handle to the bar and tugged it outward before she forced her body inside, pulling the door shut behind her. Forty faces turned from tables, a bar tender slowing cleaning a glass with a rag behind the counter, and not a female face in sight.

"Hello everyone," she began, voice drawling. "My name is Sheila Broflovski and I'm from South Park. I seem to have gotten lost and stranded from my work in Glenwood Springs. Is there anywhere that I could spend the night and contact my family? Oh, they must be so worried about me."

A patron turned his head away from her before it rotated back. "Jew."

"What, what, WHAT? I beg your pardon!" she retorted sharply. "Since when does my religion and heritage have anything to do with this?"

The patron rose while setting his drink on the counter. His movement was mimicked by a handful of other men. Each walked closer, circling the protesting woman.

"Listen you _fiends_, I don't think you understand that it is highly offensive to label people. Let it be known that I will contact the governor about-"

"Shut up," a man growled, closing a hand on her arm. "You'll contact _no one_."

It was at that moment that Sheila's eyes were drawn to one of the men's shoulders. The interwoven four lines bent at the end, joined together at the center before spiraling outward. Beneath the pattern lay the small encrypted words _Fourth Reich. _

"Oh no…" she gasped before hands reached for her body, closing around her throat, tugging at her hair.

Her purse slipped from her grasp and hit the floor, the only witness to her screams.

* * *

A/N: Hey everyone—forget about me? I hope not! Anyway, here is the much overdue fifth chapter of "Holocaust Revisited." This chapter took longer than expected to post due to finals, a new job, AnimeNext, well, you know how it goes.

Either way, I really enjoy this chapter—and yes, Sheila Broflovski _finally_ made an appearance… though a bit of a short lived one, pun intended. I really enjoyed this chapter, everything from the interaction between Stan and Kyle, to EVERYTHING about Cartman, to the prerequisite of drama. We're in for a long haul, folks.

Stay tuned for chapter six, and don't forget to bring a towel!


	6. HAIL SAVIOR

Disclaimer: SNAKES ON A PLANE! SNAKES ON A PLANE! SNAKES ON A PLANE! SNAKES ON A PLANE! SNAKES ON A PLANE! SNAKES ON A PLANE! SNAKES ON A PLANE! SNAKES ON A PLANE! SNAKES ON A PLANE! SNAKES ON A PLANE! SNAKES ON A PLANE! SNAKES ON A PLANE! PLANES ON A SNAKE? SNAKES ON A PLANE! SNAKES ON A PLANE! SNAKES ON A PLANE! SNAKES ON A PLANE! SNAKES ON A PLANE! SNAKES ON A PLANE!

The ruler will not let me enter a line break. This makes a grumpy author. Please bear with a line of hyphens.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Boys, time to wake up!"

No reply.

Gerald Broflovski offered a sigh, lips upturned in a weak smile. With the onset of a new day, the storm seemed to pass over the small town continuing its trek toward Denver. With the glaring rays of the sun glinting in the pearl reflection of the snow, the question nagged at the back of his mind—where was his wife?

His eyes shifted to the kitchen table where his youngest son sat, right hand flipping through the pages of Tolstoy's War and Peace; he was a different one than the other kids in town, setting aside the fact that he skipped several grades. Ike the Genius: it was an eerie, yet far too accurate title.

His son's eyes lifted under the hard gaze of scrutiny, brows furrowing together until they merged as one source much like a caterpillar. "…what?" The shortest of inquiry; it was a question to get the job done.

"Ah, nothing. I was going to ask if you would be able to wake your brother and Stanley up. It's past noon."

"Why?" Again, a pointed rebuttal. "There's no school today."

"Well, I was thinking of making French Toast."

"You already made French Toast."

"Oh…" he murmured. His eyes shifted to the wall telephone before another sigh escaped. Five minutes passed, and still not a word.

"I'll make sure they're not screwing," Ike said brashly, interrupting Gerald's train of thought. The older man's body tensed, eyes widening in a moment of perturbed shock before his head shook. "I'll… make breakfast." His son's head lowered before he shoved his legs forward, propelling his desk chair backward before he rose from his seat. Godzilla's growls sounded from a pair of oversized lizard slippers on each step, each cry increasing in volume as he thudded quickly up the stairs.

Children, Gerald thought, they weren't easy.

--

Ike didn't bother to knock on the door as he turned the knob and walked briefly inside, slamming it shut behind him. "Dad says he wants you two to wake up but he didn't want to see you fucking."

"Nhgn-!"

"What the—oh ewww." The boy's nose wrinkled as he turned his back to the bed, not appreciating the naked visage of his brother's boyfriend tied face-down to the bed.

"Sorry for the wait, Stan, I was—GAH! IKE! WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" The door was quickly shut, bottle of KY dropped to the floor.

"Dad said to wake you up for breakfast, but seems you've already had some," Ike retorted, head shaking from left to right. "God, I'm going to have nightmares for weeks. Thanks a lot, Kyle."

"Ike. Out of room. NOW!"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm going, Jesus. Next time, don't leave the door unlocked if you're doing… whatever it is you're doing."

"OUT!"

Ike's middle finger rose before he moved to the door, slamming it shut behind him. From the bed, Stan offered a groan.

"…if anything could kill the mood, that would be it."

"Don't remind me." Kyle sighed, head shaking twice before he walked to the bed. With a short precision, the shirts used to hold Stan's wrists and ankles to the four posts of his double were pulled three only to be tossed in the laundry bin. His boyfriend rose, rotating the joints before he offered a sigh.

"Maybe it's a sign. You know?"

"What? That I can't even finger my boyfriend of how many years?"

Stan's eyes narrowed, head turning to the side and away from Kyle. "You said that wasn't important. Sex, I mean."

"I know, I know," Kyle sighed. "I'm just… embarrassed. Frustrated. I mean, seriously, wouldn't you be pissed if your sister walked in on us?"

"…yeah, I know," he replied. The boy rose to his feet, arms pulled above his head in a stretch before he stooped over, hands closing over a pair of discarded pajama pants. "It's not that important anyway." The red-plaid fabric was brought over each leg before falling into place just below his hipbones. A sweatshirt was fetched to accompany it before he leaned toward his lover's face, lips pressed gently against the boy's cheek.

"I forgive you."

Kyle smiled, a hand lifting to scruff through the boy's hair. "Well, since the mood is completely ruined, how about that breakfast?"

"Sounds good—oooh, do I detect cinnamon?"

Without waiting for Kyle, Stan charged out of the boy's bedroom, head barely catching the end of a suspended solar system mobile as he ran. "Mr. Broflovski, I hope that's French Toast you're making!" he called loudly before pounding down the stairs. Kyle offered a laugh, head shaking as he picked up the fallen bottle of KY.

"Someday, Stan Marsh. Someday."

--

Life sucked, or so Kenny believed as he trudged through the knee-deep snow with a shovel in-hand. The only thing worse than shoveling snow was shoveling snow for your friends' houses. Still, it was a few bucks in his pocket, and another step toward leaving his 'white trash' status.

Collectively, he finished the driveways for the Donovan's, the Tweek's, the Stotch's, and the Swanson's—his least favourite house, yet last on the route lay ahead of him.

Spearing the snow before him, he started shoveling the driveway for his best friend, Eric Cartmans's, house.

"AY! Kenny, you're late you poor piece of trash!" the boy screamed as he opened his bedroom window. Kenny couldn't figure out his friend's intuition and how he was able to know where eighty percent of the town was and what they were doing at any given time; Cartman projected himself to be God.

"Shut up, fat ass!" the same muted retort as he shouted, hood pulled tightly around his face working as a shield for his chapped lips. The shovel was pulled back, airy snow pillowing up and to the side of the driveway before it lowered to repeat the same motion. Rowing.

Kenny's efforts seemed warranted as a patch of black asphalt greeted his eyes. "Hurry up, Kenny!" the voice insisted from upstairs, two swollen hands gripping the window's edge as it was slammed shut. There was a resonating tone, an echo of something crashing—Kenny could imagine his obese friend bunching a fist, middle finger saluting the sky, as he shouted, "Son of a Bitch!" It was routine.

The black gravel expanded from the street to the garage, looping until it met with the walkway. Kenny's shovel scraped against grey tile, catching the end of dead grass once in its efforts before he made his way to the house.

Cartman stood before him, again intuition striking as he leaned against the doorway with two mugs of hot cocoa in both hands. Kenny offered a hidden smile, extending a hand toward one of the mugs before Cartman yanked the hand back.

"AY! These are mine. Go get your own, you poor piece of trash."

"Cartman!" Kenny snapped, back of his throat rumbling.

"Pssh, quit your bitching. Come in. I gotta tell you about something fucked up." The hand that yanked the treat from the boy was brought forth this time in offering as if it had been there all along. As soon as Kenny's fingers wrapped around the steaming mug, Cartman's back was turned only to disappear in the house. Kicking off his boots once he was inside, Kenny set the mug down and shrugged off the parka only to retrieve the hot, savory drink and pound up the stairs to the boy's room.

"So, what's the big announcement?" Kenny asked, voice clear without the thick mask covering his lips. His eyes observed his friend's outline, large curves amplifying his obesity by a gaudy, pale blue pajama set, brown teddy bears adorning it. The pajamas were faded after three years of wear, a hole formed along the outside of his right thigh yet Cartman wore the pajamas faithfully. He claimed his mother had made them as well as two sets of identical patterns from his youth. It was a childish comfort, one he snapped at upon confrontation, yet it meshed with the shelves of stuffed animals and toys surrounding his bed, quite the contrast to his immaculately kept desk.

"I-" the boy began, pausing for an added emphasis, "was told that I was God yesterday."

"…that's it?" Kenny raised a brow until the faint, golden strands meshed with pale blond locks. "…you can pay me then I'm going home."

"Damn it, Kenny, this is _serious_." He lifted two swollen hands to the sky, fingers outspread as if to grasp a divine light. Cartman was eccentric—his gestures had been numbed through the years. "It was on the _internet_."

"What, did some sort of hoax or cyber? Oh God, I bet you cybered with some old, wrinkly man! That's gross, dude," Kenny snorted, head shaking in the midst of a laugh.

"Asshole! I'm SERIOUS! Some random dude IMs me about being God or something. Like he called me the Savior and said everything good was going to happen to me and that you guys were all going to suck my balls."

"Aww sick, dude. Totally sick." Kenny's hands moved forward placing the mug of cocoa upon the edge of Cartman's desk. "I so lost my appetite."

"But you see? I'm going to become like… the new Jesus or something!"

"So Stan and Kyle are going to crucify you or something?"

"You know, Kenny," Cartman started, eyes rolling upward as he exhaled. "I really don't find your jokes all that funny. Besides, Jews can't crucify a white man."

"…you're joking?"

"What?"

Kenny groaned, head shaking from the left to the right as he opted to ignore the boy. "Ten bucks for shoveling the drive."

"You're going to charge the guy who's going to save you from eternal damnation?" Cartman protested though he reluctantly tugged his dresser drawer open. He closed his fingers around his wallet before retracting it, leafing through until he pulled out a ten-dollar bill. Fucking Kenny, he thought, no respect. Perhaps his perception of respect was valid as Kenny pocketed the bill, tipped his head, then exited the room without so much a goodbye.

As Cartman studied the progressively shrinking form disappear from his bedroom window, the faint chime of an instant message jarred his attention. Head turned, he slowly read the encryption:

"HAIL THE SAVIOR."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: Thanks for sticking with me this far, folks. Almost two months since an edit? Could it be? Well, I'm sure there's a great excuse for my tardiness, but I'll be damned if I can think of it.

Oh, and go see SNAKES ON A PLANE. It's GREAT, and completely irrelevant to this fan-fiction.


	7. Shiva

Disclaimer: I didn't do it! I SWEAR! THE MAN WAS ALREADY... oh wait.

South Park is the creation of Matt Stone and Trey Parker. This fanfiction is the byproduct of a guy who spends his life living in the paper crate he modelled after Kale Night's.

* * *

Monday, 8:05 AM – the Broflovski's telephone rang.

The cry that followed the greeting escalated into an anguished wail, the tone escalating in pitch as the volume rose. The receiver fell from Gerald's hands, dangling like a fish on a line.

"Hello? Hello?" the voice through the receiver repeated to unhearing ears as the man collapsed to the ground, hands lifting to cover his head.

"Hello?"

He wheezed, each inhale matched by a steady exhale, chest rising then sinking to match his deep breaths. A liquid sheen coated his eyes before acidic drops formed by his corneas only to spill down his high cheekbones.

"Hello? Hello? Mr. Broflovski?" the monotone inquired.

The man extended a hand toward the phone, fingers brushing upon it before they fell against the ground. He tensed as he lay, staring in morbid fascination at the slow swing. The pendulum was mesmerizing, drawing him into the deepest hypnosis. Maybe it was a dream. He would wake up any moment as his alarm went off signaling the time to prepare for court duty.

"Shit, we lost him! Mr. Broflovski!"

The phone fell, its grip tugged free from the connecting cable. The side of the white plastic cracked, a loud 'tap' emitting before the man's desperate cries followed.

Loss.

Isolation.

Unfairness.

Injustice.

Bereavement.

"_Ha-makom yenachem et'chem b'toch she'ar avelei Tzion vi'Yerushlayim_," the man whispered.

Goodbye.

--

Kyle had finished filling in the last circle of his scantron when the PA system came on. "Excuse the interruption. Will Kyle Broflovski please come to the Principal' s Office. I repeat, will Kyle Broflovski please come to the Principal's office immediately. Thank you."

"Good timing," he murmured, stacking the thin, rectangular sheet ontop of a thick math packet. The boy rose to his feet, legs spreading slightly in a stretch before he walked to the front of the classroom. The Cutswald twins and Wendy Testaburger glanced up at him as he walked to the door, only glancing down when Ms. Ashley Spitzor-Swallows screamed: "STOP CHEATING, YOU MISERABLE WRETCHES!"

Pre-calc was never fun, especially in a class of only four students. The boy shuddered as he stepped into the hallway, remembering the lecture they were given after Mark referred to her as 'Ms. Spitzor.' "_That's Ms. Ashley Spitzor-Swallows, to you Mr. Cutswald. A.S.S. It's not that hard to remember!"_

That was only one of the many reasons why the South Park High School was fucked up.

The teachers rarely kept the classroom doors shut when teaching class. Bored, Kyle he studied each room as he passed, tidbits of lecture sifting through the air before they penetrated his ears. Mr… Ms… Whatever Garisson was teaching Creative Writing.

"Alright, kids. Tweek, why don't you go first?"

"GAH! TOO MUCH PRESSURE!"

"Now Tweek, you have to, or you'll get an F."

"GAH! OH JESUS! I CAN'T DO THAT! THEY'LL REALLY GET ME THEN! YOU'RE WORKING FOR THE COMMUNISTS! I KNOW IT! IT'S AN INTERGALACTIC BLAST TO THE PAST! ACK!"

Boring. Lame. Typical.

Kyle continued his path, head turning to the next open class room. Towelie. Teaching… he believed Russian? God, this school was so messed up. His pace was picked up into a lope, head studying the passing rooms. Lame, lame, boring, more lame, and Mr. Mackey's office.

The door was pushed inward, right hand raising to knock on the wooden frame. "Mr. Mackey, you wanted to-" he paused, taking in the normally empty office now filled with his tear-stained family and Stan. "-see… me?"

The word hung in the air like smog, the thick blanket surrounding the group, asphyxiating them.

"Kyle, I'm afraid we have some bad news, mmmkay," the aging guidance councilor said, lifting his right hand to his head, fingers pinching along the side of his wire frames.

The boy frowned, one eyebrow raising skeptically. "What's going on?"

Ike sat in the corner of the office, knees drawn to his chest, head facing the wall. His cousin, Kyle, stood sniveling behind the thickened, focal lenses.

His father cried.

"…what happened?" Kyle asked, voice more guarded.

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

Stan opened his mouth to speak, but Mr. Mackey lifted a hand, head shaking to indicate a silence. Obediently, the boy's lips closed, head hanging a bit.

"Kyle, mmm, I know this is going to be tough for you so bear with me, mmmkay?" Kyle lowered his head, a quick jerk and nod. "Mmm, alright… well… Kyle, your Mom… it seems there's been a bit of an accident."

"Accident? Oh God, did she get in a car accident during the blizzard? She hasn't come home since. Is she at the hospital?"

Silence.

Gerald continued to weep.

"Mmm, not exactly, Kyle. This is going to be tough for you to hear but… mmm…" the man hesitated. "-your Mom was killed in a bit of a brawl."

The words hung in the air like smog.

Killed.

Murdered.

Deceased.

"_What_?" Kyle asked, voice hoarse.

"It seems that she went into some unforeseen territory looking for shelter the other night, mmm, and that she stumbled across that Neo-Nazi group that's been traveling through Colorado," Mr. Mackey answered, taking off his glasses to wipe off the frames.

"-she was coming home from work," Kyle murmured. Dizzily, he drew a hand to his face, pressing against his forehead.

"Kyle, I am _so_ sorry," Stan said, breaking through the thickness as he approached. "I mean, I'm here for you. Whatever you need. I'm here."

Kyle's face turned away from Stan's, not wanting the comfort of a boyfriend. Not there. Not then. Not from him. Instead, he moved to the center of the room where his father stood and embraced the man's quaking form.

The funeral was held the next afternoon.

--

Shiva started, came, and past with a week of mourning, a week of family members. The Broflovskis disdn't change their clothes, nor leave their house for the duration of mourning. Kyle would cry then halt numbingly, emotions alternating. Neo-Nazism was a threat. It was coming in waves.

Shiva ended, but the Broflovskis weren't the same.

Kyle came to school wearing a clean pair of clothes, eyes sullen with the deepest of circles surrounding them. No one dared speak, though they watched him – eyes consistently followed him.

He yanked his locker open and dropped his backpack to the floor with a deep groan. God had a sick sense of humor, he was convinced of it.

"Hey Kyle!" the first address of his return.

Stan jogged toward him, blue and white converse squeaking from the remaining residue of snow on a hardened floor. As Kyle turned around, his arms wrapped around the boy, hands gripping at his shoulders as he held him close to his body. "Are you okay? I was so worried about you."

"I'm fine," the boy replied with a prolonged sigh. His hands hung loosely by his sides, sweaty palms turned inward against his thighs. Slowly, they lifted, pressing against Stan's chest. "You're still wearing your coat."

"Huh?" he said, lifting his head from where it rest on his shoulder to gaze him in the eye.

"You're getting me wet."

"Oh." The boy stepped back, reluctance seeping through the gesture as he unzipped his brown overcoat. "Sorry."

"It's okay."

Stan offered a sympathetic frown as the jacket was pulled from his shoulders. "So hey, let me put my stuff away. But I was thinking maybe we could go out and do something after school."

Kyle shook his head incredulously.

"My mom just died from a fucking Neo-Nazi attack, and you think I want to go out?"

"Oh… yeah… sorry. I just was trying to think of something," the boy murmured. "Maybe just a movie or video gaming night. We could order a pizza or get some fried chicken."

"Look, I know you're trying to be sweet or something but… but not now. Okay? I just need some space."

Stan's face dropped a bit but he only nodded his head calmly. "Alright. Sounds cool. But you know I'm here." Gingerly, he put his hands on Kyle's shoulders before tilting his head up, lips pressing to his partner's cheek. Kyle offered the shortness of a smile.

"Thanks, Stan. You're the best."

"No. You are," he replied, blue eyes flickering with the faintest of amusement. A tranquility.

"God, get a room, homos," Cartman snorted as he approached, Kenny in tow. "Last thing I want to see is you fags sucking face."

"Fuck off, Cartman! Seriously," the red head snapped, finger rising to flip off the obese child in a solid motion.

"Hey! Don't take it out on me because someone knocked your mom off. If I were you, I'd be shouting good riddance – she was a bitch!"

"CARTMAN! YOU FAT FUCKING PIECE OF FUCK!"

Fists were thrown into hard punches, hair was yanked and torn, hands encircled necks, knees kicked.

By the time the faculty arrived to tear the fight apart, Cartman had been knocked out. It took another few minutes before Stan and Kyle were pulled off of the unconscious form: bloodied, bruised, and not caring.

--

"Dude, Stan, I am so sorry," Kyle murmured. He had been let off on grounds of grieving but Stan had been nailed with three weeks of after-school detention. "You didn't need to."

"Yeah I did," he replied without skipping a beat. "He hurt you." A smile spread over his face, a hand moving through his hair. "At least for three weeks I'll have my homework done."

"Yeah, but you suck at homework." Kyle faintly cracked a smile.

"Practice makes perfect?" Stan tested.

"HEY FAGS!"

Both barely suppressed a groan as they turned around to find the lumbering giant approach, a broad bandage placed over his nose as he waddled toward the pair, panting with each breath. "I struck up a deal with the school."

A smirk played over his lips. "If you," he said, pointing a finger at Stan, "are my slave for one week, then you get out of detention."

"What?! They can't allow you to do that!" Stan exclaimed.

"Of course they can, homo. This is South Park – anything goes."

An exchanged glance was given. Reluctantly, Stan lowered his head. "Fine."

"Great," Cartman said exuberantly, clapping the boy on the shoulder. "We'll start now by having you carry all of my books, then clean my locker with a toothbrush, then you can order me a chicken pot pie with a coconut cream pie for dessert, oh and answer my business calls-"

"Business calls? Since when do you have business calls?"

"Look, Stan. Do you want to get out of detention?"

"Well, yeah…"

"Then respect my authoritay!"

A long week it would be.

--

Littleton, Colorado.

A group trudged forth through the thickening snow, boots heavy from snow as their legs rose straight, toes pointed upward with each step only to land once more. The procession had been marching for three hours, the thickness of the storm slowing their tracks. Red armbands coated their shoulders, flags and country ammunition resting upon their shoulders.

Through the thickness of the storm, a barely visible green sign was legible: SOUTH PARK – 195 MILES.

* * *

A/N: Thank you so much for sticking with me this far, especially considering my prolonged break. I wish I could say I had a good reason, but honestly who cares about college applications anyway? Erm. Well, either way, this chapter was hard to write, and much shorter than originally intended -- granted it's still around 2,000 words so I hope I didn't disappoint anyone too much. The next chapter should pick up the length and the pace, and if not that then the following.

I hope you enjoyed it, and please stay tuned for more.

P.S. Seaouryou is a Flamingo. 3


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